


there is love in my lungs and it's choking me

by enamuko



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22350472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enamuko/pseuds/enamuko
Summary: Ferdinand hated Hubert von Vestra. He hated his coffee breath. Hated the the way he would grin so smugly when he beat him soundly at chess, or look utterly flabbergasted on the (admittedly rare) occasion that Ferdinand managed to get the upper hand. Hated how he would always hide behind excuses of ensuring the army was operating in peak condition to disguise his genuine concern for each member of the Black Eagle Strike Force.He hated Hubert. Hated him so much he was going to die for him, apparently.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 28
Kudos: 483





	1. beginning of the end

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally going to be written for ferdibert week but other projects got in the way and then this got WAY too fucking long to be a simple prompt akldawjdkwa so have this monstrosity
> 
> warnings for depictions of illness and severe coughing, typical of hanahaki fic, if those sort of things bother you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand has a secret.

Ferdinand froze in his letter writing as he felt the telltale tickle rise in his throat.

It started as nothing but a slight cough, almost a clearing of the throat. Sometimes it would be no more than that, and would pass leaving him with the comforting thought that perhaps he was simply coming down with a cold.

The tickle in his throat grew worse, and soon turned to a burning. The clearing of the throat turned to a true cough.

He coughed into his fist, very aware that Caspar was just on the other side of the wall, and of how _thin_ those walls were.

He knew sooner or later someone would hear him, and he would only be able to maintain the excuse of an oncoming cold for so long. The longer he could keep people in the dark, the better.

The coughing fit was shorter than some, but painful. When he pulled his fist away from his mouth, his white silk glove was flecked with pink spittle.

And stuck to it was a single flower petal.

He peeled it from his glove and turned it between his fingers. Sometimes the petals were too mangled by their trip from his lungs for him to identify, but this one was intact, likely because it was so long and thin.

A single white daisy petal.

Ferdinand kept a dictionary close at hand of flower language, but he didn’t need it for this one; it was simple enough. Innocence, purity. Loyal love.

‘I will never tell.’

Ferdinand let the daisy petal float to the floor and turned back to his letter writing.

Ferdinand wondered, idly, where flower language had come from. Who had first devised the system of subtle communication, the meanings for every flower?

Had they too been afflicted with the same accursed disease that had taken root in Ferdinand’s lungs? It would make sense. He couldn’t comprehend how his lungs would know exactly what petals to spew to match his emotions; it made far more sense if it was the reverse, that someone had attributed meanings to flowers based on how their heart swelled and ached with each petal that spewed from their lips.

Or maybe he was just feeling poetic. Poetic and dark.

Was it irresponsible of him to hide a major illness, one that would most certainly end in his death, from his closest comrades during the most perilous part of a continent spanning war?

Almost certainly yes.

Did that mean he was going to stop and come clean?

Almost certainly _not_.

It was a simple enough decision, in his mind. Every single one of them was in a situation where they could die at any moment. His likelihood of dying at the end of an enemy spear was equal to if not greater than the likelihood of flower roots growing into his lungs and choking the life out of him. None of his friends would be able to do anything about it. Worrying them with it would only add to their stress during a time when they needed every ounce of hope they could muster…

Ferdinand had no intentions of dragging anyone down with him, and every intention of fighting until he could no longer even muster the strength to hold a spear. He would not let it be said that he allowed others to fight for him; he would continue fighting to reach their goal until the bitter end.

And no one would ever know what, or who, he was dying for.

The war table was the worst. On the battlefield he was at least surrounded by a great many distractions, even if every so often he would feel that tell-tale tickle or burning in his throat and force himself to power through it, or else retreat behind the front lines just long enough to clear the choking petals from his throat (and in the heat of battle no one would notice, too focused on their own survival and following their commander’s orders to think anything of his coughing fits).

At the war table, he tried his damndest to focus on the professor and Edelgard, on the strategies they laid out to cut through Dimitri’s defenses and circumvent the Church’s forces, and yet.

And yet.

It would always happen when he least expected it, when he allowed his guard to drop for just a moment, to lose himself in thoughts of trade routes and advantageous battlefields. He would offer his own suggestions, point out potential points of ambush or weaknesses in their defensive line,

And from across the table would roll a deep, smooth voice, usually to poke some sort of hole in his suggestion, sometimes to offer genuine useful criticism, and, rarest of all, sometimes to give a few simple words of praise, couched in the language of simple observation.

And then he would not be able to resist raising his eyes from the detailed map spread out in front of the Black Eagle Strike Force, a clever retort already dying on his lips as he caught sight of a glint of yellow-green,

(just the colour of lemons that were on not quite the right side of ripe, too sour to be enjoyed but all the most eclectic palates, and oh was that a comparison he was not eager to focus on for too long)

and a smile that depending on the comment that preceded it was either a smug, self-satisfied grin or a rare genuine upward turn of the lips, one that turned the look in that singular eye from a glint to a glimmer.

The tickle always rose into his throat, then.

Ferdinand hated Hubert von Vestra. Hated his smug voice, hated how willing he was to lick Edelgard’s boots without a single critical thought of his own, hated how he always smelled vaguely of the coffee he loved so much despite how increasingly difficult importing it was as the war dragged on. He had spent most of his Academy days making an itemized list of reasons why he hated Hubert von Vestra, ostensibly as a stress-relieving exercise, and he could probably still list it in numerical order.

He hated his coffee breath. Hated the the way he would grin so smugly when he beat him soundly at chess, or look utterly flabbergasted on the (admittedly rare) occasion that Ferdinand managed to get the upper hand. Hated how he would always hide behind excuses of ensuring the army was operating in peak condition to disguise his genuine concern for each member of the Black Eagle Strike Force.

Hated how no matter how often he made Hubert smile, his eye would always turn to Edelgard the moment she entered the room or said a single word, and the moment would be lost.

He hated Hubert.

Hated him so much he was going to die for him, apparently.

If he was lucky, the coughing fit would generously wait until he was back in the room before making him spew up a seemingly endless amount of flower petals.

Purple lilac.

If Ferdinand had to pick both a favourite and a least favourite flower, after all of this, it would be purple lilac.

On the one hand, the petals were small. That usually meant he coughed up more of them, but they were far too small to get folded up and caught in his throat the way some did. They were almost downright pleasant, and hardly ever made his throat bleed. If he made a ranking of which flowers he hated coughing up the least, they would probably be at the top. Compared to some flowers— ugh, don’t even get him _started_ on the orange lily petals that had nearly caused his premature end after seeing Hubert, bloody and exhausted from battle, proudly congratulating the Black Eagle Strike Force on a sound victory— they almost let him believe for a moment that he wasn’t dying at all.

On the other hand, every time he saw their entry in the flower dictionary that he perused more out of morbid curiosity than need, he cringed.

 _First love_.

It wan’t enough to just let him die in peace with his dignity intact, was it?

The mechanics of hanahaki were poorly understood at best, and no two scholars could quite agree on the source. It wasn’t contagious. Every person who suffered from the disease had unrequited romantic feelings for another person, but not every case of unrequited love made people suddenly start growing deadly flowers in their lungs.

And Ferdinand could quite easily attest to the fact that it had nothing to do with when you first fell in love, either.

He would be long dead if that was the case.

Perhaps it was just sort of _always_ there, waiting to chose the most dramatic and inconvenient moment to make itself known.

It only made sense that he and Edelgard had been childhood playmates; they were near enough the same age and with his father serving as the Prime Minister, he spent a great deal of time at the Imperial Palace in Enbarr, being nannied while his mother took tea with the other court noblewomen and his father attended to his duties.

It was only natural, then, that he had also made the acquaintance of Hubert from a young age; he had been Edelgard’s shadow as long as Ferdinand had known either of them.

It had been less natural, how he had attached himself to Hubert.

If anyone had brought it up in his school days, he would have laughed it off and called it the follies of youth. Hubert was older than him, by a few years, which would have surely seemed alluring to a child with little experience in the world; not old enough to be an adult, but old enough to have a mysterious allure. A foolish sort of idolization that he had quickly outgrown.

Of course, no one had asked during their school days, because no one knew, save for himself, Hubert, and Edelgard. And neither of them would say anything, and so neither would he. It was better if they simply acted as though they had always hated each other.

It was less painful that way, to think that it was the way things had always been.

Ferdinand remembered a childhood spent practically treading on Hubert’s heels as he chased after him eagerly, trying to tempt him into childhood pastimes that Hubert had always derided as too childish but had acquiesced to anyway, ‘if only to keep you quiet’. Remembered not being able to stop staring at Hubert’s signature on the ‘get well’ card he and Edelgard had sent when he had been laid up for a season with a terrible case of pneumonia that simply refused to go away. 

Remembered being scolded severely by his father when he, with bountiful childhood innocence and a complete lack of understanding what he was talking about, had declared that he intended to marry Hubert when they grew up. And remembered even more clearly (and fondly) the way Hubert had called his father an irrational fool and a ridiculous bigot as he offered his handkerchief to Ferdinand, who had already dirtied his own in his fit, even though Hubert must have been equally embarrassed by his outburst.

And then Edelgard had disappeared.

They didn’t speak of it then. They didn’t speak of it _now_. Ferdinand knew, even now that they had approached something resembling friendship once more, that there were always going to be things Hubert was going to keep secret from him. And what had happened to Edelgard— what had caused her to return to them with white hair, a fierce look of determination in her eyes, and a willingness to pursue her cause even to the point of continent-wide war— well, that was not his place to ask.

He supposed it would not matter long, anyway.

Things had begun to fall apart when Edelgard disappeared. Something about Hubert _changed_ in a way Ferdinand at that age could not comprehend. In a way even now he wasn’t sure he could fully understand, though at least as an adult (an adult fighting a _war_ ), he had more comprehension of the ways in which trauma changed people…

He hadn’t seen much of Hubert at all during the time Edelgard was… _Away_ , and when she returned, she and Hubert were always at each other’s sides. They no longer had time for him, and treated him as an annoyance, someone underfoot to be kicked aside. Their friendship was a private thing. He was no longer invited to participate.

It had only gotten worse.

Ferdinand had decided then that if he could not be their friend, then it fell to him to be Edelgard’s worthy rival. To challenge her and ensure that she did not stray from the ‘correct’ path. It had made him a quick enemy of Hubert, who had seemingly forgotten every positive memory of their childhood together—

Like he’d said. It had simply been easier to pretend that it was the way that things had always been. Less painful.

No one knew how hanahaki first developed.

Ferdinand wondered whether he might not have been handed a death sentence when he and Hubert had finally decided to set aside their differences. ‘For the good of the Empire’, as though the Empire in any way benefitted from them taking tea (and coffee) together every day.

Wondered if perhaps the seeds had always been there, waiting for fertile soil in which to sprout after Ferdinand had spent so long salting the Earth to dull the pain of being left behind by his best friend and his first love.

Wondered if he would have traded the chance to see Hubert smile so genuinely at him again when he handed him a bag of his favourite coffee beans, for something as paltry as his life.


	2. and i will lay my heart on the line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand deals with the consequences of keeping secrets, and discovers that he is far from the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys like asymmetrical chapter lengths

He was proud of himself, really, for how long it went unnoticed.

The war helped. If he looked run down and haggard even while trying his best to maintain morale, well. They were at war. The reality of it weighed heavily on them all, and this far along, even the most enthusiastic of their army were starting to get bogged down.

Even Caspar didn’t laugh as loudly anymore.

So they could hardly blame _Ferdinand_ for being tired.

He learned quickly how to subtly disguise the coughing fits, to surreptitiously dispose of the petals, to slip away unnoticed when he could and to always have on hand a few plausible excuses for his absence when he could not.

He suspected that Hubert was beginning to realize something was wrong, but even he had not said anything. And Ferdinand knew that the moment he realized he would have been cornered and interrogated. How long had it been going on. Why had he not yet had the infection removed. Did he even realize how irresponsible it was of him to quietly allow himself to die without saying anything.

He felt a strange sense of satisfaction knowing that not even _Hubert_ had figured it out. He was a far better liar than he gave himself credit for.

And then.

The war room.

It was nothing special. Simply another meeting to look over their most recent victory. It had been more narrow than most, perhaps, but not enough to invite a somber atmosphere. If anything, everyone was growing more determined as the war carried on, feeling its end looming before them on the horizon and eager to reach it.

Ferdinand was just thinking as he listened to Hubert speak on their intel for the next attack that at the rate they were progressing towards Edelgard’s goal, perhaps he would live to actually see the end of the war.

And then Hubert finished what he was saying, and looked up to scope the reactions of everyone sitting at the table. First Edelgard and the Professor, in search of conformation that he had delivered their plans to their satisfaction, then at everyone else in search of understanding or perhaps critique.

And then they locked eyes from across the room, and Ferdinand’s traitorous heart provided him with the thought, _I want to watch the sun rise on a peaceful Fodlan with him, just once_.

When the coughing started, he knew something was wrong immediately.

It started as the same tickle, one so insistent that he knew he would have to excuse himself, but before he could do so it intensified.

And then he couldn’t breathe.

Concerned cries of “Ferdinand!” and one of “Ferdie!” came from around the table when he coughed a few, pathetic times, only to find his airways completely blocked. The blockage felt so much larger than what he was used to from even the most massive petals folded in on itself. He tried to stand, to at least stagger out of the war room with a sliver of his dignity intact, but his body’s natural desperation to clear his airways left him dizzy and shaking. His vision went black at the edges as he leaned his weight against the person to his left, while someone on his right was giving his back hard thumps to dislodge whatever was obstructing his breathing—

Someone put a lightly scented handkerchief to his mouth as finally, the obstruction cleared. He screwed his eyes shut as he leaned his full weight into whoever was holding the handkerchief to his mouth for just a moment until he could regain his footing.

When he opened his eyes, the delicately embroidered silk handkerchief that had been offered to him was streaked with bloody phlegm, and sitting in the middle of it, cupped perfectly in an equally delicate hand, was a whole white orchid blossom, streaked with red. A symbol of innocence, purity, and everlasting love.

And a popular funeral flower.

He was onto entire blossoms now.

“...Ferdie?”

It was Dorothea who had caught him and held the handkerchief to his mouth, the handkerchief she was now staring at in dawning horror. With bleary eyes he looked around at the rest of the room, and found faces— some of concerned confusion, some of dawning horror. Linhardt was somehow even more pale than he was naturally, and Bernadetta had turned almost the same shade of green as his hair.

Caspar to his right was asking him, in a voice that sounded as muffled and distant as if he was underwater, if he was alright.

Ferdinand shook his head even as he forced himself to say, “I am quite alright,” in the scratchiest and most wrecked voice he had ever heard from his own lips, even though he was coughing up flower petals on a daily basis.

Even his own body could not keep up the lie any longer.

It felt… Poetic, almost, in a horrible way, when a gloved hand came down on his shoulder to guide him away from the horrified Dorothea with her shaking hands still holding his bloody blossom, from the concerned but confused Caspar who Linhardt was already coming around to, presumably to explain and keep him from well-intentioned prying, from the Bernadetta who already looked like she was about to cry and the Petra who watched him with sad understanding and the Professor Byleth whose concern showed even through her usual stony mask.

Away from the Edelgard whose carefully cool expression slipped into raw fear for only the briefest moment in a way Ferdinand was ashamed to say he took pleasure in, knowing that she at least held him in enough regard to allow the mask to slip, if only for a moment.

The cool silk of Hubert’s glove on his almost feverish neck made Ferdinand’s heart flutter.

He coughed up another orchid on the way to the infirmary.

“You already know what this means, Ferdinand.”

Manuela spoke with the patience of a physician, but the genuine concern of a friend. She was giving him a stern look, almost a glare. It made him feel a pang of guilt deep in his chest.

He said nothing.

“Full blossoms mean the final stage,” Manuela continued.

“I know,” Ferdinand said.

“There are treatment options.”

“I know.”

Ferdinand felt oddly at peace.

Manuela huffed. Annoyed, he was sure, at his casual response to his own impending death. 

He was sure keeping matters impersonal had been easier when she had an entire monastery of students and staff to watch over.

“And you won’t even consider them, will you? This doesn’t make you the hero of some romantic opera, Ferdinand. This is your _life_.”

“I know.” He gave his head a shake. “But no, I will not. Call me a foolish romantic, but…”

Had this grown during his school days, he would have accepted the treatment in a second. A chance to rid himself of the painful feelings that came with his memories of Hubert, of knowing their childhood friendship (and perhaps more, if children that age were capable of such) truly meant nothing to him? Throwing that away would have been the easiest choice he’d ever had to make.

Now, though? Now that Hubert regarded him once more as a friend and confidant, the thought of continuing on, utterly indifferent towards him, with those feelings and memories utterly stricken from him… It made him feel ill.

“I certainly _will_ ,” Manuela huffed. “You’re so _young_ , Ferdinand. Far too young to be throwing your life away after whatever idiot doesn’t love you back.”

Ferdinand unintentionally allowed a chuckle to escape.

Manuela’s eyebrows went up.

“Have you… Even spoken with whoever it is?” she asked.

“It would not make a difference,” Ferdinand said, with a shake of his head. “I am aware of how he feels. We are friends, nothing more.”

“So you _haven’t_.” Manuela’s glare intensified. “Really, Ferdinand… You can be much too stubborn for your own good. Or you’ve seen too many operas. If you’re not going to even consider having the infection removed, you should at least try every other available option. In fact, that’s my order as your doctor.”

This time, Ferdinand at least held back the laugh that wanted to escape. The idea of doing so was… Absurd, to him.

Why would he burden Hubert with the knowledge and the guilt that he was dying because of him, all because of feelings Hubert himself had no control over?

Ferdinand had every opportunity to save himself; he was choosing not to. That was his burden to bear, and no one else’s.

Still he looked Manuela in the eye and lied. “I will.”

She scrutinized him closely, as if trying to see whether he was speaking the truth. But he had been hiding his condition for so long now— since even before the Professor had returned to them— and he felt he was quite experienced in the art of deception.

He gave her his most placid smile.

He was _exhausted_.

Perhaps it was that exhaustion that made her surrender, or perhaps his ruse had taken. Either way, he felt relieved when she said, “...Alright. I can’t force you to change your mind. But please, Ferdinand. Consider it.”

“I will,” he lied again. He had already considered it and decided against it, long ago. “Was there anything else, my princess? I am afraid I’m feeling quite tired, and I have some important business to attend to…”

The flattery of his favourite nickname for her made her soften, and she sighed. “I would rather you stay here in the infirmary… I expect you for regular checkups, alright?”

So she could try to convince him to have the roots removed before they could choke the life out of him, he assumed. It was admirable. He had no doubt he’d be hearing the same from the likes of Dorothea, Bernadetta, perhaps even Linhardt, who would chastise him for being a romantic fool just like Manuela, albeit with far more bite…

“Alright,” he agreed, because lying had become far easier than telling the truth.

Checkups would do nothing to alleviate his condition. Only one thing would do that, and he had given up on that long ago. And now that he knew the end was drawing near, he had a great deal of business to take care of.

Perhaps that was why he felt so at peace— he no longer had to worry about when the end was going to come.

No one lasted long once the blossoms began.

“Ferdinand,” Manuela said as he rose from his seat to leave, making him pause. “Maybe this is too forward of me, but… Who is it? You have my word as a doctor that it will never leave this room.”

Images of daisy petals flashed through his mind.

He said nothing as he stepped out of the infirmary and closed the door behind him.

The first day, Ferdinand was left in relative peace. Perhaps Manuela had given the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force instructions to allow him to rest, or perhaps they had come to that conclusion on their own after nearly watching him choke to death on a flower. A guard had been posted by his quarters if he needed assistance, but he was hampered by nothing more than a few stray single petals, which he was more than used to.

He spent the day writing letters, mostly for the sake of getting his affairs in order. Perhaps it had been a blessing that Edelgard had seized most of his family’s lands; otherwise he could only imagine the blood sport that would erupt among his distant family members when he, the only legitimate heir of Duke Aegir, passed away suddenly, leaving behind no wife or children.

It was tranquil, almost. As though the acceptance of his impending death had seeped into his very bones.

The second day he was not so lucky.

He had not been hungry enough after coughing up an entire flower to seek food, but that changed quickly when upon waking up his body realized it had been nearly a full day since he had eaten _anything_. So he had made his way down to the dining hall.

That had been his first mistake.

Bernadetta had been the only other member of the Black Eagle Strike Force there when he arrived, and he’d breathed a (rather premature) sigh of relief. He was not certain he could have handled seeing Hubert first thing in the morning after such an… _Incident_.

He had said nothing at all to him while half-marching, half-carrying him to the infirmary, and had left as soon as he was in Manuela’s care. Part of him had been disappointed at that, but a far larger part of him knew that he certainly did not want Hubert to hear what he had spoken about with Manuela, and it was a blessing that Hubert had not chosen that moment to deliver his lecture.

He and Bernadetta had eaten in relative silence, until Ferdinand cleared his throat— not a cough, simply a light tickle left over from the rawness of his throat after yesterday’s big moment— but Bernadetta jumped so suddenly in her seat that her knees smashed against the bottom of the table and made everything rattle.

“Oh, oh, oh, th-this is it, isn’t it?! What should I do, what should I do? Should I go get Manuela?! Ferdinand, stay right here, I’ll—”

He caught her wrist just as she tried to spring up, and guided her to sit back down.

“Bernadetta,” he said softly. “I am alright.”

“N-no you’re not! You’re sick!”

And that, he could not argue with.

Eventually he had managed to calm her down enough to assure her that while he was sick, he certainly was not dying right in front of her. If he was on death’s door, he told her, would he not be in the infirmary?

That had placated her somewhat, as did the fact that he was well enough to be moving around. She had told him she had been reading about his illness, which had made his heart sink.

“B-before yesterday, I’d only ever read about it. In r-romance novels. I didn’t think… I didn’t think it really worked like that, I thought they made it up for the stories! I thought… It almost looked like… You were so _pale_ …”

Then she had descended back into wordless blubbering and he had held her hands in his own and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles until she stopped crying, saying soothing nonsense he could not even be bothered to remember as soon as he left the dining hall.

He ate barely half his plate, took the rest assuring her he would finish it in his room, and dumped it onto the ground for the stray cats and dogs of the Monastery to eat as soon as he was certain no one was looking.

He had lost his appetite.

After that, he had intended to disappear back to his room. He still had a great deal of work to be done, and precious little time to do it. But he wasn’t sure if it was bad luck, or if news had simply spread quickly (he and Bernadetta had made quite a scene in the dining hall, after all), but before he could reach his room, Dorothea had cornered him near the greenhouse.

“What did Manuela say?”

She did not even greet him. He was certain she would have pushed him up against the wall if he had not been so ill. He was not certain that she would not do so regardless.

“Dorothea—”

“It’s bad, isn’t it? That’s why you’re trying to avoid everyone. How could you not tell us?”

“Dorothea, please—”

“We could have helped! Or at least supported you. Were you just planning on wasting away in your room? Dying without telling anyone? Ferdie, I’m so mad I could just—”

“ _Dorothea_.”

His voice sounded more pleading than he intended, but it seemed to have the intended effect; Dorothea stopped in the middle of her sentence and her mouth snapped shut.

There was an annoyed fire in her eyes, but it died out when she locked eyes with him for long enough.

Ferdinand wondered if he looked as miserable as he felt. He doubted it; he would have certainly been forced into the infirmary already. But she certainly must have thought he looked too miserable to lecture.

“Ferdie…” she said softly, and he could see the burning desire to ask questions in her eyes.

It would be hard to lie to her, but he would if he had to. He hoped he would not have to.

And in perhaps his first stroke of luck since that war room meeting, Dorothea simply stepped forward to wrap him in a tight hug instead of asking any of them. He could feel her trembling against him, and if he looked down he was certain he would see a glisten of tears in her eyes that she refused to let fall, and so he did her the courtesy of instead wrapping his arms around her in turn and allowing her to keep her secret.

When finally Dorothea had let him go and made up an excuse about needing to be elsewhere urgently even as she was scrubbing away tears, Ferdinand stumbled his way up the stairs and towards his room.

He had hardly been out of it, and yet he was utterly exhausted. The disease truly was getting worse, perhaps by the moment. Even just thinking about it, he felt a tickle in his throat…

He all but crashed into his room in the middle of coughing up a bevy of pink camellia petals; thankfully not another whole blossom (they would come, he was sure; the flowers got denser and closer together as the disease entered its final stages, and by the time it was over, he would practically be a fountain of full blossoms if the texts he had been studying had any truth to them… Provided he even made it that long without simply choking to death the old fashioned way), but enough petals that his mouth started to fill and he felt more like he was retching than coughing.

His final mistake of the day was not paying attention to his surroundings. For one, he did not notice that the guard who had been posted at his door in case he suddenly needed to be taken to the infirmary was gone. And _then_ he stumbled so abruptly into his room that he did not even bother to take a second glance; he was far too busy reaching for the edge of his desk to give him something to lean on to avoid collapsing entirely as he coughed up the petals.

He almost choked on his own _tongue_ rather than the flowers when he felt a hand at his elbow, helping to support him, and another one placed gently between his shoulder blades, patting and rubbing to help him clear his airways.

He whipped his head around to see who was in his room with him, though he should have known without even having to look. The sudden motion combined with his exhaustion and the fact that the coughing fit had stolen his breath made him dizzy, and he stumbled directly into the chest of the intruder, the room spinning around him.

Hubert gently guided him towards his bed, even as he was still processing the fact that _Hubert_ was in his room _waiting_ for him.

“Your condition is getting worse.”

“Not even a ‘hello’, Hubert? That seems rather rude, even for you.” He had meant for it to be a bit of lighthearted banter, because the tone of Hubert’s voice sent a terrible chill up his spine; there was a darkness there that he had never hoped to be on the other end of…

Of course, it was perhaps a _bit_ overshadowed in its intent by the way it came out as more of a _rasp_ than anything else. The camellia petals had done a number on his throat, and as he was clearing it, Hubert crossed the room to fetch him a glass of water from the pitcher he kept on his desk.

The way he handed it to him and placed a steadying hand on his back was almost tender, in contrast to the way he could feel Hubert’s intense bright eyes burning a hole through him as he tried to take the water in careful sips rather than the huge, greedy gulps his throat craved.

He could not imagine throwing up water, flower petals, and whatever remained of the few bites he had taken of his breakfast all over Hubert would endear him to him any further.

“I suppose it’s almost… _Commendable_ , how you managed to keep it hidden for so long.” Hubert took the empty glass from him and set it aside, helping him into a half sitting, half lying position that was more comfortable but would keep him from choking on anything he had to cough up. “Keeping a wasting illness a secret is no small feat.”

“We are at war; everyone is exhausted and worn down.” He had not gone especially far out of his way to hide it; he had simply attempted to keep up with his regular duties and not show the worst of his coughing fits. It was simply natural camouflage.

(Still, hearing Hubert compliment him, even in a way Hubert clearly did not appreciate, even for something he considered out of his own control, made him relax and almost _melt_ in a way that he sorely _wanted_ to say was because of how comfortable it felt to sink into his bed…)

“I spoke with Manuela,” Hubert said, never one to linger on a subject for longer than necessary. “She wouldn’t tell me anything, of course. But it wasn’t hard to tell from her mood that you’ve decided to forego treatment.”

Ferdinand could not help but laugh at the cold tone of Hubert’s voice. By the Goddess, he could _not_ win, could he?

Then again, would Hubert’s opinion have changed if he knew who exactly Ferdinand was dying for? He highly doubted it.

“I would advise you do not waste your time trying to convince me otherwise,” Ferdinand said with a sigh, letting his eyes slide shut and head loll to the side. “I have had my mind made up since I knew what I was inflicted with.”

“I assumed as much. And you’re far too stubborn to listen to something like _reason_ or _sense_.”

“I take it back, Hubert; you have reached a new low, insulting a man on his death bed.”

“Who is it, then? What fool is worth throwing your life away for?”

Oh, if this _were_ an opera, the dramatic irony would be killing him almost as fast as the flower roots strangling his lungs. Again he could not resist laughing, though each time he did so, he could _feel_ Hubert growing increasingly annoyed with him.

“I fail to see the humour in this situation, Ferdinand,” he said, confirming his suspicions. Ferdinand cracked an eye open just enough that he could see the way Hubert was glowering at him. So much like the way he would look at him during their school days, but knowing it was out of concern rather than malice made a warmth flood through him.

He raised himself up from the pillow throne Hubert had set him down upon so gently, and coughed.

He could tell it was worse than the camellia petals the moment it hit his throat; he doubled over, hand over his mouth, feeling a large gloved hand come down on his back again, patting and rubbing to help clear his airways.

When he pulled his hand away, there was an anemone blossom and a great deal of bloody spittle in the palm of his hand.

 _Fading hope_.

That one, he was not sure of. After all, he had already given up hope long ago.

It was only the second full blossom that had come up, but he had read all of the books and papers. A day between flowers. Then, half a day. A few hours. Soon he would be coughing them up regularly, and then…

Well.

“I cannot tell you,” Ferdinand said, and felt Hubert’s hand tense on his back.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“It would do no one any good,” he replied, though it did not quite answer Hubert’s question. “It would not change anything. And if you wish to blame anyone, you should blame me.”

“I _do_ blame you, for being— a reckless fool with no regard for his own life.”

The calm but cold tone of Hubert’s voice was no surprise— but the hitch in his voice, that even someone as skilled at keeping his thoughts under wraps as Hubert could not hide? The way his hand almost seemed to be shaking as it was pressed against his back, despite the fact that the danger of his choking had passed and there was no reason for Hubert to still be rubbing between his shoulders to clear his airways?

Ferdinand felt a painful throb in his chest that had nothing to do with his illness.

He had to take a moment to remind himself that Hubert would be _fine_ without him. He would hurt, certainly— Ferdinand was acutely aware that he was doing a great deal of harm to _all_ of his loved ones, but he knew they would live through it. They would find strength in each other and move on.

Hubert had the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force. The Professor.

Edelgard.

Hubert would be _fine_.

“Hubert—”

He started to say as much. It was so unlike Hubert to show so much emotion so openly, even when the two of them were completely alone, that he felt like he almost _had_ to reassure him, even if it was likely to get him a roll of the eyes or a flat unamused stare.

He did not get the chance.

The tremor in Hubert’s hand grew worse, until he was forced to pull it away. The loss of contact made him feel suddenly cold, as though Hubert’s hand had been warming him (though he knew for a fact that Hubert ran cold and would do no such thing, though through no fault of his own).

The sight of Hubert getting to his feet and trying to excuse himself even as the coughing was already starting to overtake him made him feel even colder.

Ferdinand had no idea what possessed him to reach out and grab Hubert’s wrist before he could go far. It was hypocritical of him, for one. But he had to see it.

He did not _want_ to see it. But he _had_ to.

His grip was not at all tight. Hubert could have quite easily escaped it, with even the slightest effort. But he allowed himself to be guided back to the bed, where Ferdinand, even in his weakened state, could pull him tightly into his side and rub his back the same way Hubert had been doing for him just moments ago.

Hubert coughed. And coughed. And _coughed_.

And when he pulled his hand away from his mouth, when the coughing finally died down to an irritated clearing of the throat, his immaculately white glove was flecked with blood.

And in the middle of his palm sat a crumpled but brilliantly yellow daffodil petal.

Thoughts raced through Ferdinand’s mind faster than he could stop to consider any of them. But the one that stood out the most, even against the background noise of the rest, was,

_Daffodil. Symbolizing regard and chivalry, as well as rebirth and new beginnings. Also a symbol of unrequited love._

Ferdinand had never coughed up daffodils. The object of his affections was many things, but he would hardly describe the man he was holding in his arms as chivalrous, and though he liked to think he held him in high regard it was impossible to know for sure.

The unrequited love part, well. Perhaps that was simply _too_ on the nose.

He had never coughed up daffodils, but his eyes had skimmed across their entry in his flower dictionary so often the words had burned into his mind. Perhaps it was the mention of ‘unrequited love’ that had drawn his attention each time he flipped past it in search of whatever he had most recently coughed up, out of a sense of morbid curiosity more than anything. Perhaps it was because he had always enjoyed daffodils for their chivalric connotations, before his opinion of flowers had been completely soured by the fact that they were killing him by inches.

Perhaps it was kismet, fate, so that he could recall that fact at this exact moment while the world crashed around him.

Hubert was dying.

Hubert was _dying_.

“How long?” he asked, though his voice sounded distant in his own ears. Was it exhaustion making his head swim, or was it pure emotion?

Perhaps it was both.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hubert replied, and Ferdinand absolutely hated the way his voice sounded, rough and ruined.

Was that how he sounded, each time he forced up another shower of petals? It had been so long and he had grown so used to it that he could hardly say one way or another.

“Of course it _matters_ ,” Ferdinand insisted, because how could it not _matter_?

He needed to know. He needed to know how long he had missed the signs, whether he had been so wrapped up in his own illness that he had not noticed that his former classmate, closest friend, _love of his life_ was dying just as he was,

Over a love gone unfulfilled.

“It’s being taken care of,” Hubert said, in a tone that invited no argument. “You should be more concerned about yourself.”

Ferdinand relaxed somewhat at that. Of course it was being taken care of. Hubert was not like him; he was not a hopeless romantic who would throw his life away so easily. He had a mission to accomplish, and would not allow anything to stand in the way of that. Pragmatic to a fault. It brought him comfort to know that even if Hubert was enduring the same terrible fate he was, at least Hubert would do what Ferdinand was not brave enough to do; cut away the infection and the feelings that came with it so he might continue to live.

Nothing would separate Hubert from Edelgard, after all. Not so long as he had a say in the matter. And no matter how bitter a taste that left in Ferdinand’s mouth, it was at least a truth he had always been able to trust in.

Of course, that raised the question in Ferdinand’s racing and paranoid mind of why Hubert had not already tended to the infection. Hubert was always a pallid man, but there was a particular way to the cut of his already sharp cheekbones, the colour of the bags beneath his eyes, the tremor in his hands, not to mention how he had so casually coughed up that flower petal, making it quite clear that he had _known_ and was used to it.

The same camouflage of battle exhaustion that had allowed Ferdinand to hide his disease from the others had hidden Hubert from him— the one person who absolutely _should_ have noticed because he was living the same monstrous reality, albeit farther along. But it was also clear that, though Ferdinand might have been suffering from the disease for longer, Hubert was no newcomer. He had been sick for a while.

It could have simply been because there was no time for such a procedure. Having known from the beginning he had no intentions of choosing that method, Ferdinand had not researched it in much depth. He knew only its effects; that the only way to excise the disease completely was to eradicate the feelings that had caused it in the first place.

A horrible thought flashed through his mind entirely against his will.

“Who is it?” he asked, before he could even stop himself.

Ferdinand’s hands were shaking.

“I don’t think I owe you an answer to that question,” Hubert said, and Ferdinand could not fail to notice the venom in his voice, the same tone of _betrayal_ that made his heart both flutter and sink; flutter because it was so different from the cool distaste Hubert had treated him with for so long, and sink because he knew he deserved it, even if he was certain Hubert would mourn and move on with haste, considering the circumstances of the war.

He had no desire to harm Hubert; that was why he was in the predicament he was in, was it not?

But still, it burned in his mind, made bile rise in his throat that, for once, had absolutely nothing to do with the flowers trying to escape his lungs.

Hubert had never shown any interest in romance or anything of the sort. Far too impractical, when one’s life was dedicated entirely to one’s work, he supposed. Ferdinand had shamefully taking some small measure of selfish pleasure in that; if Hubert did not return his feelings, then at the very least it was not because there was something _wrong_ with him; it was simply because Hubert had no interest in romance.

It was painful to think that the truth of the matter was that there was _someone else_. He was not delusional enough to believe that that was the only thing standing between them; at the same time, the thought of Hubert loving someone else and that someone not returning his feelings, enough that it was _killing him_ , when Ferdinand would have done _anything_ to be in their place?

Even beyond that, though… There was the matter of who Hubert loved, who could possibly have a strong enough grip on his heart to choke the life out of him; if Ferdinand’s experience was anything to go by, the love had to be intense, _all-consuming_ even.

Hubert had never been interested in romance, never had the time for it, because he had been far too dedicated to Lady Edelgard.

And therein came the dawning horror.

The only person Ferdinand could ever imagine Hubert falling in love with was Edelgard. Whether Edelgard returned such feelings, he could not say for certain; they had drifted too far apart since whatever had befallen her that he was not permitted to know. But what he _could_ say for certain was that Hubert would never tell her, not if he had the choice. It would be a secret he took to his grave.

Quit literally and with great haste, it seemed, because Hubert would also never give up his feelings for Edelgard. His readings had not specified what was meant by ‘eliminating’ ones feelings, whether it was purely the romantic attraction or whether it would eliminate one’s opinion of a person altogether, but Hubert? Hubert would not take such a risk where Edelgard was involved. His entire life revolved around his dedication to her, and had done so as long as Ferdinand could remember.

Hubert was going to die for Edelgard, just as Ferdinand was going to die for Hubert.

Almost poetic, in a way. A thought which did absolutely nothing to eliminate the immediate searing pain Ferdinand felt at such a realization.

He was brought back to reality by the shifting of weight, Hubert rising to leave as he dabbed carefully at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief.

(Already so pallid, and perpetually exhausted from the war effort and whatever work he did for Edelgard in the shadows where Ferdinand was not permitted to see; with the last flecks of blood and saliva wiped away, there was no sign of the disease that was killing him slowly, but also far too quickly. Immaculate and ready to return to his work without a second thought.

Ferdinand knew at that moment that he was the only one who knew.)

“Wait,” he said, even as he winced at how— _pathetic_ his voice sounded, not only strained and broken from the flower petals that had been forced up through his throat, but almost _desperate_ as he reached out to take hold of Hubert’s sleeve.

Hubert stopped, halfway standing.

Ferdinand felt the words freeze in his throat. There were so many of them, so many things he wished to say and yet knew he could not, words he had intended to let die with him even before now and knew he especially had to keep within knowing what he did.

He wanted to tell Hubert that he loved him, so that he might know that he _was_ loved. Even if it was not by the right person.

Instead, what Ferdinand said was, “Please, just for a while… Stay.”

And what Hubert said was,

“...Alright.”


	3. bared to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand and Hubert have a necessary talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the reason why this became totally independent of ferdibert week because this has taken me like two months to complete adwakdkjlwa

It was the sort of disease that became not only progressively, but _exponentially_ worse, but one could never quite tell precisely how quickly it would go.

A generous estimate would give blossoms a week to live, perhaps two.

A more realistic estimate would give a few days.

Would he be able to feel it coming, _know_ it was the end before it happened? Would he be able to feel the roots choking his last breaths? Considering the pain that the disease had already put him through, he was sure it would not be a clean end; perhaps by the end of it he would be hoping for death, praying for it, to free him from the torment.

He was not certain whether it would be more or less painful if it were sudden, like quickly ripping off a bandage, leaving a fierce sting and heat in its wake but better than the slow and painful alternative— or if perhaps the pain was worth the time it would allow his loved ones to say goodbye on their own terms, and begin to move on while he yet lived.

Nor was he certain which he would prefer. He wanted to see the war through to the end, see the Empire emerge victorious and Edelgard begin to build her new world that she had so thoroughly convinced him to believe in, even if he had to do so from a hospital bed— but given his state, how much his condition had worsened in such a short period of time, he was quite certain that was beyond the realm of possibility.

And there was a part of him that was glad for that, because it meant that he would not have to watch Hubert dying by inches in front of him, helpless to do anything.

“They must be even more foolish than you, to not return your feelings.”

“I believe I told you to submit all compliments to me in writing.”

“That’s difficult to do when you’ve trapped me here.”

Ferdinand laughed, though it was a raspy sort of noise, and got him coughing. It thankfully passed without bringing anything up, but even in the dim evening light of his room, he could see Hubert’s brow furrow with concern.

He nipped that firmly in the bud by saying, “In any case, it is kind of you to say, my friend, but people can hardly control the way they feel, and I cannot begrudge someone for not returning my feelings.”

“Even if it’s killing you?”

“Perhaps especially then.”

Hubert sighed, turning away at the same moment that Ferdinand turned to smile at him.

Ferdinand did not mind, of course. In fact, he almost preferred it. He was not certain he could handle Hubert looking him in the eye, but so long as he was looking away, Ferdinand could take as much time as he wished to admire him.

Hubert was not what one might call _classically_ attractive. He did not possess the delicate and soft feminine features of someone like Linhardt (no matter that his personality hardly matched, though years of exposure found Ferdinand considering that more charming and endearing than anything), nor the sort of rugged handsomeness of someone like Caspar (though Ferdinand could hardly look at him without remembering his atrocious haircut and chubby-cheeked face from their school days), nor the classically noble countenance Ferdinand thought of himself as having, though such a thing was too vain to say out loud.

Still, Ferdinand would not have traded the chance to simply _look_ at him for anything.

Hubert was not quite fully turned away, but rather had his head tilted in the direction of the opposite wall, his hair as always falling across the side of his face closest to Ferdinand. His eyes traced the sharp curve of a cheekbone and followed it down, admiring the distinct jawline and the gentle curve of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed, the bob of the knot of his throat…

It was so easy, while they were lying there in the dying light of the evening, side by side on a bed that had been designed with a single teenager in mind rather than two grown men, to imagine what other path might have led them to a place like this. Ferdinand liked to think he had given up on indulging in childish romantic fantasy, set it aside for the pragmatism of war, but…

Well, he was _dying_. Was he not allowed to be a bit fantastical?

Could things have turned out differently if he had simply said something to Hubert all those years ago? Or if he had not been so preoccupied with the idea that Hubert and Edelgard had left him behind and no longer had need of him? He would never be able to replace Edelgard in Hubert’s heart, of that much he was certain, but…

But perhaps if he had not pushed Hubert away because he could not comprehend his closest friends growing closer over some sort of shared trauma without him, he could have _shared_ that heart, enough that he might have been able to guard it from the thorny vines that sought to choke the life from him…

They were pressed side to side, for they had to be in order for both of them to fit on his bed. For a moment, Ferdinand considered the fact that he could simply… Reach out and take Hubert’s hand.

They were so close. Would Hubert refuse him? He doubted it. Many would call Hubert cold, cruel even, and indeed Ferdinand had seen precisely how merciless he could be to his enemies, but to those he actually cared for?

Perhaps he had an… _Unconventional_ way of showing it, but Ferdinand was not certain he could imagine someone who was _more_ concerned and _more_ invested in the wellbeing of his loved ones than Hubert.

Ferdinand knew Hubert cared for him. Perhaps it was not in the way that Ferdinand _wished_ he cared for him, but the fact that Hubert knew his preferred tea when he did not drink tea himself, the fact that the mess hall had been ‘mysteriously’ serving his favourite dish on his birthday when he was quite certain he had never told anyone _but_ Hubert what it was, the fact that he could always be certain that if the enemy got too close to him on the battlefield there would be dark magic springing up to his rescue…

Yes, Ferdinand was quite certain that Hubert would not refuse him such a small act of intimacy. He was also quite certain he would never be able to take advantage of Hubert’s kindness like that, no matter how much he yearned for such a small thing…

“Ferdinand?”

Hubert’s voice was so soft, Ferdinand almost thought he had imagined it until Hubert turned to look at him as though he was expecting a response that had not come.

“Hm?” He tried to act as though having Hubert’s eyes on him so directly was not almost overwhelming in the soft barely-there light that made them _glow_ , and with their faces so close.

He was certainly a better actor than he used to be.

“You won’t tell me who is responsible for this,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. “But perhaps you’ll… _Indulge_ me in another question.”

 _Anything_ , Ferdinand nearly said without thinking. Anything he could do, anything he could say which would make things easier for Hubert rather than simply hurting him _more_.

What he said instead was, “Perhaps.”

“What could possess you to— _die_ for someone like that?”

Hubert said it with such earnest confusion that Ferdinand was immediately thrown by it. He could imagine any of their other friends asking him such a question, but _Hubert_?

He could not even stop himself from replying with, “I could ask you the same, Hubert.”

He was not even certain if it was true; Hubert had not said as much and he had not asked. Not only because it was rude, particularly considering he had refused to tell Hubert about his own condition, even if he had a perfectly good reason for it…

No, it was also because some part of him wanted to believe that he was wrong, that Hubert intended to undergo the treatment Ferdinand had refused. If Hubert was not as far along in the disease as he was, then if he did not know for certain, he could selfishly carry that denial with him and believe that even if he was dying, Hubert would persist after he was gone.

Hubert’s tense silence in response destroyed that false hope and made Ferdinand’s heart sink so deep in his chest he felt like there was nothing but void there.

“I… Have always been prepared to die for someone,” Hubert answered instead, which made his sunken heart flip unpleasantly. “Though the method is… _Unexpected_ , I must admit. You, though? You have a great deal more to live for.”

Did he really? What did he have? His family name and noble title were all but in ruins, though he had persevered in the role for which he had been trained… Practically since birth.

There were his friends, of course, but he was already quite certain they would go on without him. They were strong people.

“You have a great deal more to live for than I do, I think,” Ferdinand said quietly, eyes wandering down to Hubert’s hand lying so innocuously on the bed next to him…

He could justify it to himself, was the worst part. It was a simple comforting touch. It was nothing that would be unusual for two friends to share given the circumstances, even if Ferdinand knew that his genuine motives were selfish and shameful.

Still, there really was nothing stopping him, was there? Nothing but his own hesitation.

Ferdinand truly felt as though it would bring Hubert some measure of comfort. And at the moment, that was the most important thing.

He reached out and took hold of Hubert’s hand without allowing himself to think of it any further.

Hubert tensed under his touch, but that was nothing new. When they had first started growing close once again, Ferdinand had approached touch cautiously, as was only appropriate. He had not seen Hubert be especially physically affectionate with anyone and so had also not known whether such affection would be welcomed.

It had not been until the heat of a post-battle victory that had been won by the skin of their teeth and had secured them a great step forward towards their goal that Ferdinand, lost in the jubilation alongside everyone else, had thrown his arms around Hubert in a massive embrace. And Hubert had tensed at his touch then as he had now, which had made Ferdinand falter, but when he had gone to apologize for the misstep Hubert had simply assured him that it was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. People simply did not offer him physical affection, and he never sought it out.

Hearing that had upset Ferdinand at the time, but it also brought him some small measure of satisfaction, knowing that he alone offered Hubert the physical affection he quietly craved.

Hubert’s fingers slotted perfectly between his own, and Ferdinand admired the feeling of their clasped hands for a moment before continuing with, “You have a dream, a goal. One that you only have because of your deep allegiance to Edelgard, but it is certainly a lofty and noble goal nonetheless, no matter how much you might disagree with me saying so.”

“Do you have no goals of your own? The Ferdinand von Aegir who never let up about defeating Lady Edelgard would be terribly disappointed.”

“I… Still wish to help guide Edelgard as much as possible,” he said, concerned that even though they had set aside their differences regarding their positions at Edelgard’s side in favour of supporting her with both of their strengths, bring up such a matter now would only serve to tarnish this… _Precious_ moment that he wanted to burn into his memory, for however long it might last. “But she does not _need_ me, not the way she needs _you_. Certainly she could benefit from someone standing at her side, keeping her aware of the consequences of her actions and pushing her to do her best, but… I am not the only one who could fill such a position.

“You, though?” He chanced running his thumb across the curve of Hubert’s. “You are her most dedicated believer and closest confidant.”

“I seem to recall you not so long ago accusing me of being a ‘bootlicker who could not have a thought of his own if he tried’.”

Ferdinand could hear the teasing tone of Hubert’s voice, but still he cringed to hear his own words, as they were near verbatim— and hardly something he was proud of himself for saying.

“Well, you must admit,” he said, hoping a gentle chuckling would discourage Hubert from realizing how awkward he felt. “You can be a tad bit overzealous when it comes to Edelgard. You can hardly blame me for saying as much.”

He sighed, then, turning back to stare up at the ceiling before letting his eyes slide shut. He thought about the arguments they would have about Edelgard, Ferdinand accusing Hubert of enabling Edelgard regardless of right and wrong, never bothering to consider any possibility other than absolute obedience, while Hubert accused _him_ of actions and thoughts bordering on treason because he treated Edelgard more as a rival than as the future ruler of their people.

Looking back on it, he supposed they both had something of a point; Ferdinand’s opinion of Edelgard had almost certainly been coloured unpleasantly by the fact that Hubert had so thoroughly dedicated himself to her that he simply had no time for Ferdinand any longer, and Hubert…

Well, Hubert had dedicated himself so thoroughly to Edelgard that he was going to die for her, so Ferdinand felt like he was perfectly justified in saying that Hubert was _too_ dedicated to her.

No matter that such a thing made him a hypocrite, because here he was, dying for Hubert, a man who had spent half a decade treating him like something he had scraped off his shoe, and receiving likewise treatment because Ferdinand had no other way to process the hurt and abandonment he had felt.

“Regardless,” he said, clearing his throat, and steadfastly _refusing_ to look at Hubert. “Her vision is grand, and while she is… A _capable_ leader, she depends on you to help her execute that vision. Anyone can see that.”

He did not see the look on Hubert’s face; he was not sure he could bear to look at him. But he felt Hubert stiffen again next to him, and yet also felt the grip on his hand become tighter.

Perhaps it was simply his imagination, but he swore he could feel Hubert… _Trembling_.

“You know,” Hubert said, and no, he certainly was not imagining the slight tremor of Hubert’s voice, so subtle most would not have noticed it— had they not been the sort of person who had spent hours upon _hours_ memorizing the tone and timbre of his voice, so enraptured by it that he had more than once had to make up a less embarrassing excuse as to why he had completely failed to hear what Hubert was actually _saying_. “Once I might have called that an insult to Lady Edelgard. Now I can only laugh as I imagine the look on her face if I were to tell her you called her _capable_. ...And take it as the compliment I know you intend it to be. How things do change…”

He laughed, and Ferdinand could hear the tremble even more clearly then, and he chanced a look over at Hubert only to see he had lifted his hand to his face to cover his eyes…

“Hubert,” he said, trying to keep a waver out of his own voice as the realization struck him and he sat up, pulling his hand into his lap so he could wrap it in both of his own, squeezing it tightly. “Are you… Crying?”

Ferdinand expected immediate denial. Hubert von Vestra, the Emperor’s shadow, crying? Preposterous, or something like that.

Hubert surprised him by doing no such thing, although he began to shake his head as though he were about to.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, and Ferdinand felt his heart both sink and flutter at the sniff Hubert gave as he rubbed a gloved hand across his eyes. “But considering the situation, I think a bit of emotion is perfectly warranted.”

“Hubert…”

He wanted to say _something_. His first thought was to lighten the mood, painful as it was to see _Hubert_ of all people— Hubert, the cold, calculating shadow of the Empire— so raw and emotional.

(Though in some sick way, Ferdinand actually felt… Not _happy_ , not about _this_ , but perhaps more than a little satisfied at the thought that he was likely the only person who had ever seen Hubert in such a state. He would never show such a vulnerable side of himself to anyone else, not even— or perhaps _particularly_ not— Edelgard.

It disgusted him, taking any level of joy in Hubert’s pain, but to think that he was trusted enough to see this side of him made his heart swell…)

What could he say, though? There was nothing that would make this situation easier, nevermind better. Ferdinand could not fix anything, and refused to lie to Hubert as a balm to his pain— the way he did to himself.

Instead, he did the only thing he could think of— he pulled Hubert to him by the hand he was holding and wrapped his arms around him.

It was awkward, because Ferdinand was sitting up and even though he was stronger than Hubert there was only so much he could do to tug him around by the wrist without the proper leverage. So it ended up with Hubert’s head resting against the space between his chest and stomach, one arm wrapped comfortingly around his shoulders and the other hand gently petting his hair, carding his fingers through it.

Again, Hubert tensed up. Ferdinand expected him to; it hardly insulted him. And he felt flooded with warmth when he felt Hubert not only relax into his touch, but curl one arm around his waist to reciprocate the affection as best he could at the awkward angle.

“The Empire needs you,” Ferdinand repeated, though what he _truly_ wanted to say was, ‘I need you.’

“It needs you more than I,” Hubert replied, though it was muffled somewhat by the way he turned his head and spoke into Ferdinand’s chest to hide his face, as though Ferdinand had not already seen him crying. “Perhaps Lady Edelgard does… _Value_ me, as you say. But the Empire will need people like _you._ People who shine, rather than hiding in the shadows. Someone to lead them into a bright future. And if I can’t be there to help Lady Edelgard achieve her vision, _someone_ must be.”

The grip Hubert had on the back of his shirt tightened suddenly, and Ferdinand could _feel_ him trembling, not only in his hands but all over.

“Please,” he said, his voice hitching in the middle in a way that made Ferdinand’s heart flip unpleasantly— even more so when he began to cough in that too familiar way, which made Ferdinand hoist him up to sitting, regardless of the unpleasant twinge it left in his muscles, and begin rubbing his back. “You know I’m not a begging man, Ferdinand. But I have no desire to die in vain—”

Hubert froze in his arms, even his cough immediately stopping, as though time had stood completely still.

Ferdinand froze as well, Hubert’s words sinking in.

And then he surged forward and kissed him.

Ferdinand hardly minded the taste of blood and forget-me-nots on Hubert’s lips, was too absorbed in the sensation of Hubert’s dry, cracked lips on his own (hardly in better condition, after the illness and the stress and the war had their way) to care about the indignity of the way they tumbled to the bed together without Ferdinand helping to support Hubert’s weight or Hubert prepared to support Ferdinand’s as he all but pounced on him.

He felt something hot and fierce blossom in his chest at the way Hubert’s startled gasp into his mouth turned to hands fisting in the front of his shirt, trying to pull him in closer though they were already pressed chest to chest, Ferdinand lying atop Hubert on his bed with their legs tangled together, mouths moving against each other as though their only way to breathe was to steal the air from each other’s lungs…

Which, given the situation, was not entirely inaccurate.

Ferdinand felt truly able to breathe for the first time in _months_ , though he knew that was likely more a matter of the mind than any true improvement in his condition— but regardless, he still needed to _breathe_ , which forced him away from Hubert’s lips no matter how much he desperately wished otherwise.

He might have taken a moment to be embarrassed about how indecent their position was— Ferdinand von Aegir was still Ferdinand von Aegir even in jubilation and (hopefully) in recovery from being at death’s door— had Hubert not chosen that same moment to say,

“You— it was— _why_?”

The broken sentence might have been far from complete, but Ferdinand could gather the gist of it, and an almost manic laugh spilled from his lips. He could tell he was crying— could feel the tears running down his face— but they flowed as freely as that laughter, and even scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve did little to stem the tide.

“Of course it was you, you ridiculous man,” Ferdinand said, answering the question Hubert had not quite asked. “Who else did you think I was willing to die for?”

“ _Anyone_ ,” Hubert replied, without hesitation, and any thought Ferdinand might have had about getting up was washed away by the way Hubert clung to him, burying his face in the curve of Ferdinand’s neck. “You _hated_ me.”

“ _You_ hated _me_ ,” Ferdinand returned.

“I was a fool.”

“I think this proves that we are both fools.”

Hubert laughed— a genuine laugh, not a bemused or sarcastic chuckle, with the same sort of unhinged mirth that had bubbled up out of Ferdinand moments ago.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“How long, then?” Hubert asked, and the way his voice broke in the middle made Ferdinand want to draw him in and never let go.

“Since we were _children_ , Hubert,” he said honestly, because really, what was the point in hiding it any longer? Hubert knew he was willing to die clinging to their friendship rather than live without it, what was the point in being embarrassed about a childhood crush? “Though all of _this_ … Only started when we came to our mutual understanding, and I realized how much I had missed being close to you.” He cleared his throat, feeling his face set ablaze as the first inklings of self-awareness began seeping in around the overwhelming joy and relief. “And for the record, I did not hate you— though it took me a great deal of time to even realize that myself. I was simply… _Bitter_ , at being excluded by you and Edelgard, when the three of us had always been so close…”

It shamed him, to say such things out loud, looking back at how he had treated Hubert. Of course, Hubert had treated him no better, which was a slight balm, but— Ferdinand had always held himself to an incredibly high standard, and the way he had reacted to his own confusion and disappointment by lashing out and growing bitter? Towards the person who he was now not afraid to admit he had cared for more than _anyone_ since before he had been truly old enough to understand such things?

He would spend the rest of his life making it up to Hubert in any way he could imagine, if he would allow him. And Ferdinand had a sneaking suspicion Hubert would be more than amenable to that, whether or not he agreed with the matter of there being anything to apologize for…

It was just starting to truly sink in, the thought that he was no longer dying. That _Hubert_ was no longer dying. Or, at least…

“I love you,” he blurted out quite suddenly, cutting Hubert off before he could say whatever he had opened his mouth to say. “I— I must confess, I have no idea how this disease is… _Cured_. I… Did not want to take any sort of risk.”

Hubert looked at him with widened eyes for a moment, blinked, and then snorted, in the way that he knew riled Ferdinand up, and despite being quite aware of it Ferdinand was not immune to falling for the bait and immediately frowning at Hubert before he could even say whatever inflammatory thing he was about to say.

“This far along and you haven’t even learned that much? Rather careless of you when it comes to your _life_ , wouldn’t you say?” 

“I hardly expected my feelings to be returned,” Ferdinand said immediately, almost defensively. “And such a thing might be easy for one such as _you_ to find, but it is not such common information as you might think. Stories such as ours rarely have such a happy ending.” Ferdinand sighed. “Though I suppose that was a bit foolish of me to think—”

“I love you too, you ridiculous, beautiful man,” Hubert said, cutting him off in perhaps the only way that did not invoke Ferdinand’s annoyance— with such a _Hubert_ compliment, disguised with an insult and yet so completely genuine it caught Ferdinand utterly off guard. “If that wasn’t obvious at this point.”

“I still enjoy hearing it regardless,” he said, because once again, there really was no point in being embarrassed by any of this any longer. “In fact, I would enjoy hearing it a great deal more often— and telling you in turn.”

He and Hubert loved each other so much they were willing to die for each other; what more was there to hide between them?

He knew his face was still flushed regardless— in part because he was becoming more and more aware of their indecent positioning by the moment— but it brought him joy when Hubert turned away in an attempt to poorly hide that he was doing the same.

It would be perhaps an understatement to simply call Hubert pale, and some less generous people would likely throw around the word ‘pasty’ quite a lot, perhaps even ‘vampiric’ if they were feeling especially snippy, but like with his voice Ferdinand had spent quite a lot of time memorizing the exact tone of Hubert’s skin in every possible light. He could no doubt replicate it on a canvas from memory, but despite Hubert’s natural pallor, he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen him blushing.

That was _also_ something he would like to experience a great deal more often, he decided. Even if the trade off was that Hubert would see him in a similar state.

It was a price he was willing to pay.

“Tell me, then,” Hubert said, clearing his throat in a way that made it painfully clear he was Changing The Subject and would brook no argument on the matter. “If you didn’t think I would return your feelings, who did you think _I_ was dying for?”

Ferdinand looked at him with one eyebrow raised, wondering if Hubert was pulling his leg, as the answer was utterly _obvious_. When Hubert mirrored the expression back at him, he decided he was completely serious— and that more than anything shocked him enough to simply say,

“Why, Edelgard, of course. Who else?”

Hubert looked at him like he had just slapped him across the face.

“Hubert,” he said, almost carefully, the way one might approach a wounded animal. “Are you about to tell me this comes as a _surprise_ to you?”

“ _Of course_ it does,” Hubert replied, staring at Ferdinand with undisguised confusion, as though _he_ were the one spouting nonsense. “Such a thing would be _completely_ inappropriate—”

“Which is precisely why it would make sense for a situation such as this!” Ferdinand said, both enthusiastically and in utter disbelief. “Love that must remain unrequited because of the other’s position, the fact that you have _always_ been willing to die for Edelgard— you might not be a romantic, Hubert, but surely you can see how your devotion to her is the thing of legends— the sort of thing people will write operas about.”

(He had spent a great deal of time bitterly imagining exactly that, after all.)

“Is that why, then? Why you thought I would not return your feelings?” Ferdinand was not sure whether he wanted to laugh at the absolute puzzlement in Hubert’s voice or whether he wanted to give him a good smack for it; he would do neither, of course, but the subtle urge for both was _there_.

“Well, the fact that we could not say two kind words to each other for the better part of our lives had something to do with it as well,” he reminded him, but then felt suddenly bashful when he continued with, “But… Yes. I suppose in a way, it was. Even when you and I grew closer, I knew full well that I would never be able to measure up against Edelgard in terms of your affection.” Goddess, it sounded so… _Juvenile_ to say such a thing out loud. “I suppose, looking back on it, that was why I so fervently competed with her in our youth. Not only to force her to strive for success as I did, but also… Because I felt if I could prove myself superior to her, then it would _force_ you to take notice of me.”

The words tumbled from his mouth without his permission, and he found himself simply lying there and avoiding eye contact, because he could not bear to see the look on Hubert’s face at such a shameful admission.

He felt assured that he had Hubert’s love, but Hubert was a man who did not feel the need to separate affection from harsh criticism, and while Ferdinand could weather the worst of his verbal blows with a smile and a laugh, he felt especially fragile at the moment.

“You were my first love.”

And then, his head snapped back towards Hubert at such speeds he nearly injured himself. Of course, now Hubert was looking away from _him_ , once more failing to hide the beautiful shade of red he was turning, but where Ferdinand would have normally been content to allow that, after hearing something like that…

Well, he simply could not bear to _not_ have Hubert look him in the eyes when he said,

“Say that again?”

And so before the words left his mouth he reached out, his hands cupping around Hubert’s jaw and gently turning him to face him. Hubert fought to continue looking away from him, but when their eyes met, it was as though they were locked together and suddenly neither of them could look away…

“You heard me,” Hubert said, almost mumbling in a decidedly un-Hubert way, who while not the most outspoken man was rarely one to do anything but speak clearly and plainly and never shied from speaking his mind.

It was humbling, really, to know he could reduce Hubert to this. It was more than he had ever dreamed, in fact.

Before he could even tell Hubert that he wanted to hear him say it again regardless, Hubert without further prompting continued with,

“Perhaps ‘love’ is too strong a word,” and he punctuated with a cough, though Ferdinand had a feeling that was more to give himself an excuse to cover his face with one gloved fist. “I was certainly too young to truly _understand_ the concept. But calling it anything else seems too— _reductive_.”

Ferdinand reached out to take Hubert’s hand in his own, unfurling it from a fist so they could press their fingers together. Ferdinand was not wearing his gloves, in the comfort of his own bedroom, but Hubert _was_ wearing his.

Suddenly he was overcome by the _powerful_ urge to see Hubert’s bare hands. The thought shot through him like an arrow through his heart, and the embarrassment followed quickly.

He could not simply _ask_ for something like that; it was both embarrassingly intimate, and hilariously prudish. Would Hubert be offended that he asked him to do such a thing, or would he mock him for being so proper he could not even make such a simple request without being flustered?

Of course, there was the fact that Hubert was lying in his bed, currently beneath him. And making no move to get away from him, or even seeming uncomfortable with the situation.

Hubert had far fewer concerns with the concept of propriety, after all. He certainly had his _own_ concerns, but unless something was likely to reflect poorly on Edelgard, he cared very little for how people saw him and whether he was being judged or not.

Ferdinand clasped their fingers together in a tight squeeze, then removed his hand from Hubert’s until only their fingertips were touching. He looked up at Hubert from under his eyelashes as he pinched the very tip of Hubert’s pointer finger and gave a small tug.

Hubert was watching him with a curious expression, brow raised and anticipatory, making no move to stop him, which Ferdinand took as permission to continue. He gently tugged at each finger of Hubert’s glove until it was loose enough to be removed without risking damage to the delicate silk.

At some point Hubert had begun holding his breath, which Ferdinand only realized when Hubert _released_ that breath in a tense almost-gasp when the glove was pulled free from his hand.

Ferdinand wore his silk gloves partly because it seemed proper and noble, and partly because Hubert and Edelgard had always worn them and thus Ferdinand had to as well, obviously!

He could not be certain about Edelgard, but he was now quite sure that propriety and nobility had nothing to do with why Hubert wore his gloves— and potentially even his aversion to touch had little bearing.

Starting from the tips of his fingers and radiating downwards in a dark, almost sickening cloud were deep black marks that looked like he had recently rolled a hunk of charcoal around in his hands. He might have thought that was exactly what those markings were if he could not see the way they ran through veins and curled around the lines of Hubert’s palm…

“Oh, Hubert…”

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Hubert asked, as casually as though he were simply commenting on the state of the weather. “Magic often leaves its mark on those who wield it, but _dark_ magic is especially vile.”

Hubert pulled his hand from Ferdinand’s grasp to spread his fingers, taking Ferdinand’s hand and pressing it to his own. Hubert’s fingers were longer and bonier than his own, and his skin paler where it showed through the black.

“Though I suppose it’s only fitting, for someone like me to have his hands stained black,” he said, so softly that Ferdinand might have thought he was not meant to hear had he not known Hubert as well as he did— he never said anything without purpose. “Compared to yours…”

“I have killed in the name of the Empire, Hubert. My hands are not unsullied.”

If there was one thing that _did_ agitate Ferdinand more than endear him when it came to Hubert, it was the man’s insistence on his own monstrosity. He did not say it in so many words, but Ferdinand could tell— Hubert did not regret the dark deeds he performed in Edelgard’s name, but neither did he consider them morally righteous simply because he believed in their cause. More than that, he refused to think of himself as a fundamentally good man as a result.

Ferdinand knew how wrong he was, of course. Knew that Hubert did what he did only to spare Edelgard from having to do the same, to keep the blood from her hands as much as he could; the two of them had thought him oblivious all those years, and though he might not have been able to see the full lay of their plans (and still found some corners darkened to his understanding), he had not been blind, either— except perhaps when it came to his own conduct. 

Edelgard’s vision was not one that could be achieved without spilled blood and great sacrifice. Ferdinand had accepted that; Hubert had already accepted it long ago.

“You can hardly consider us _equals_ ,” Hubert said, and it took genuine effort for Ferdinand not to laugh; he could so easily imagine Hubert saying such a thing years ago in such a completely different context that it almost tipped over into the absurd. “You’re a soldier fighting in a war. I’m—”

“You are a dedicated retainer protecting and serving his liege,” Ferdinand said, cutting him off before he could listen to any more self-depreciating ridiculousness.

“What would you say if I told you I enjoyed it?”

“Then I would call you _extremely_ dedicated.”

He looked down at Hubert’s hand, still pressed palm to palm with his own, and angled his fingers to slide them together. They felt even more right without Hubert’s glove getting between them, as though they were made to fit together— although he knew Hubert would find such a statement too sentimental and so kept it to himself, letting it suffuse him with a warm glow.

A few short hours ago, Ferdinand thought that he would die because Hubert did not return his feelings. Now they were lying together in his bed, hands clasped, knowing they would have died for each other. Just the thought was enough to make him misty eyed— tears of happiness, naturally, but he did use his other hand to wipe the beginnings of tears away with the heel of his palm.

“Ferdinand— are you—”

“Is this why you thought I would not return your feelings?” he asked abruptly. All of this cutting Hubert off was certainly not very _polite_ or _proper_ of him, but when it stopped Hubert from asking silly questions, well. It was really just in their mutual best interest then, was it not? “Because of your ‘stained hands’?”

They both knew he was not speaking of the scars his magic had left behind.

“Well,” Hubert said, and from the tone of his voice Ferdinand instantly _knew_ that something smarmy was about to come out of his mouth, “The fact that we could not say two kind words to each other for the better part of our lives had something to do with it as well.”

“Hubert,” he said, exasperated, but the fact that Hubert had not _denied_ the fact washed away that exasperation quickly enough. “Did you truly think I would be so shallow?”

“I would hardly call it _shallow_ ,” Hubert said. “Though when we were younger, you wouldn’t have liked my answer to that question.”

“I can hazard a guess as to what it was,” Ferdinand said flatly. “Originality was never your strong suit. But I am far more interested in your answer _now_.”

“You talk about it like it’s… Such a _simple_ matter,” Hubert said, something very much like irritation seeping into his words, alongside something very much like… _Awe_.

It was something Ferdinand had never heard in Hubert’s voice when he was speaking of _him_. It was a tone more commonly reserved for Edelgard, usually when he was speaking of her glorious mission, her dedication, and a plethora of other things Ferdinand was realizing now did not sound truly romantic— adoring, yes, but they were more like what one might say about their god than their lover.

“Is it not?” Ferdinand asked. In part, he was playing dumb— he was not so oblivious as to truly believe that the subject was so easily dismissed. Ferdinand had spend a great deal of time reaching to be the pinnacle of nobility, a shining star that others might follow. Hubert was Edelgard’s shadow, doing the dark work needed to make the Empire and Edelgard’s vision shine just as brightly while not getting to enjoy such light himself.

But none of that mattered to Ferdinand. Looking back on it, he was hardly sure that it had mattered when he was still at odds with Hubert. He had never been concerned with what Hubert was _doing_ — more that he had been willing to do so unquestioningly, simply because Edelgard asked it of him.

There was really no masking it— Ferdinand had been _jealous_ , even though he had no need for Hubert’s skills, and wished only for his admiration and adoration.

“To hear you say something like that so casually… I have no idea whether to call you an idiot or a saint.”

“Well, the latter would be blasphemous— though I suppose you have never cared about such things.”

Ferdinand felt a chuckle bubble up out of him even as he said it, though— one that could no longer be contained, no matter how he tried to hold it in, to keep the moment serious.

“I truly adore you, Hubert,” he said, reaching to remove Hubert’s other glove, though he gave him ample opportunity to pull away or tell him to stop, taking the lack of either as permission to continue. “I am quite aware of the things you do, much as you might think I am not. And I am equally aware of the sort of man you are, no doubt even more than _you_ are. And knowing all of this, I have loved you since we were children, and have no interest in doing any differently. As I wager you feel the same, it seems as though we should have no difficulties.”

It was reductive, and he knew it; he could foresee _many_ difficulties, external and internal both.

But neither of them were dying anymore. Already his chest did not feel heavy and bound, as it had for far too long; he was certainly not yet back to perfect health, but even if it truly _was_ only wishful thinking and the power of suggestion, he felt leagues better already.

Hubert’s other glove came off, and Ferdinand set it carefully aside along with the first. When they had been folded and set aside, Ferdinand clasped both of their hands together, slotting their fingers together perfectly.

“It will take me a great deal of time and effort to prove myself worthy of you saying something like that,” Hubert said, which surprised Ferdinand, because he had never heard Hubert speak in such a manner— but when he looked up from their clasped hands, he simply found Hubert still staring at them, brow furrowed and clearly in deep consideration. “But as you were always so fond of saying, nothing is too great a challenge.”

“You will not find it much of a challenge,” Ferdinand said, and truly, they might have gone back and forth like that for the rest of the night— Hubert insisting he did not deserve Ferdinand because of the blood on his hands, Ferdinand searching for the kindest ways he could call Hubert an idiot although Hubert did not bother to extend him the same courtesy of pulling his punches in any way— 

Until a realization hit Ferdinand like being run over by a horse.

“Oh,” he said, letting out a sigh and resting his forehead on Hubert’s chest, burying his face there.

(The thought flashed through his mind that he would very much like to do so without the barrier of Hubert’s coat and shirt in the way. He felt his face flush, and was glad for the fact that he was already hiding it.

He could consider such things… _Later_.)

“Oh?” Hubert repeated in a somewhat curious, somewhat amused tone.

“Dorothea is going to give me a terrible talking to when I tell her what a fool I have been,” he said, not proud of the way he mumbled it into Hubert’s chest but preferring it to allowing Hubert to see how red his face had grown. “Not to mention Manuela…”

Ferdinand felt rather than saw Hubert wince before he said, “Lady Edelgard will have rather _stern_ words for both of us, I imagine.”

“Does she know? About the illness?” Ferdinand asked, less certain about it now that he knew Edelgard was not the cause. The question was motivated by concern, of course— but also by the first flutterings of an entirely new kind of jealousy that he tried hard to suppress, because it was neither fair nor becoming.

He had always been jealous of Hubert and Edelgard’s relationship, of course— but now that he knew he had Hubert’s love and not simply his friendship and regard, a certain sort of possessiveness was welling up inside of him. He desired not only to have Hubert’s love to himself… He wanted to have other parts of him, as well. Secrets and things he could tell no one else.

Not a realistic dream, he was sure, with how close Hubert and Edelgard were even lacking that romantic component. And despite many bitter thoughts he’d had as a child, he had no desire to get between Hubert and Edelgard. Their friendship, if one could even call it that, was important to Hubert.

He never wished to end it; he had only ever wanted to be a part of it, like he had been when they were children…

“No,” Hubert replied, and Ferdinand was not certain whether he should be surprised or not. Hubert was eternally loyal to Edelgard, but that did not mean he did not keep secrets from her or go behind her back; he had admitted as such to Ferdinand.

He always did what he thought was best for Edelgard…

“With everything going on, it would have only served as an unnecessary distraction,” he continued.

“The death of her oldest friend, closest confidant, and self-proclaimed shadow would be ‘unnecessary’?” Ferdinand asked, his head whipping up to look Hubert in the eye regardless of the state of his face, not only incensed by how little value Hubert obviously placed in his own life— that would have been hypocritical of him, when he had been planning to die without telling anyone just as Hubert had been— but also genuinely confused.

No one with an ounce of sense could look at everything Edelgard had done and planned to do and say Hubert was ‘unnecessary’. And that was not even his competitiveness talking, trying to attribute Edelgard’s success to someone else; he new for certain that he could not have accomplished what she accomplished without someone like Hubert at his side to be his constant support.

(In all honesty, ever since Edelgard had _risen in insurrection_ against the Church, he was beginning to wonder whether he could have ever accomplished what she had accomplished, _period_.)

“By comparison? Yes. Edelgard’s mission is far more important than any one person. And at the rate I was progressing, compared to how fast the war has been going, I suspect I would have survived to the end if there were no serious complications. With the Professor and the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force at her side, I’m certain my death would have been mourned and moved past in a timely manner.”

Hearing the same words that had been on repeat in his own mind ever since he had realized he was going to die, but coming out of _Hubert’s_ mouth, was incredibly disorienting and troubling. Rather than dwell on it, however, he merely said,

“That is not true in the slightest. The Professor and the rest of our comrades are no replacement for you— lucky, then, that Edelgard will have both of us standing at her side for the rest of the war and long after.”

The Prime Minister and the Minister of the Imperial Household— the Emperor’s two right hands, united by a common cause… Not one of sedition like their fathers, but rather one born from a mutual desire to see Edelgard’s dream become reality, and…

Well. Ferdinand did not want to get ahead of himself when he and Hubert no doubt had many long, complicated conversations ahead of them, but the idea of them being unified by more than simply their work was _deeply_ appealing to him.

“The Emperor’s shadow and the Empire’s bright sun, hm.” Most would have thought the chuckle in Hubert’s voice was disingenuous, menacing even. Ferdinand knew better. He was also immensely distracted by being called the _Empire’s bright sun_. “Not so long ago, I would have thought it would be an impossibility… A fantasy, even discounting the fact that I never thought I would make it that long.”

“Hubert…” Ferdinand saw two paths stretch before him, two distinct possibilities for what he could say— but Hubert was already quite aware of how he felt, he was certain, and the jubilation he felt needed an outlet, so… “You sound like quite the hopeless romantic. Could it be that all of the times you have made snide comments about me doing the same, it has simply been insecurity on your part?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t fall in love with you for your sense of humour or we would be right back where we started.”

Ferdinand chuckled, and then laughed, and then could not stop laughing no matter how he tried— he buried his face once more in Hubert’s chest as the laughter grew beyond his control, almost to the point of hysteria. His shoulders were even shaking!

“Ferdinand?” Given how sudden and uncontrollable his laughter was, he was not surprised to hear genuine concern in Hubert’s tone, but even so Ferdinand found it hard to respond when every time he opened his mouth nothing came out but more and more laughter.

He forced himself to stop if only because he was completely out of breath after what must have been more than a minute of solid, uncontrollable laughter. He reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“My apologies,” he said, the last few bits of laughter trickling out of him as he took a few deep breaths to steady himself. “I have no idea what came over me. I am simply so— so _happy_. I jest, but… I am not certain I thought it possible for us to be together like this either.”

Hubert loved him. Hubert was _in love_ with him. The utter impossibility of such a thing had been _fact_ in his mind not even a few hours ago, and yet they were embracing in his bed, trading such loving words (for a… certain definition of such).

And neither of them was dying.

(Though he was not sure he would be able to say the same once Dorothea and Manuela got their hands on him…)

“I… See.” Hubert’s hand came own between his shoulder blades to rub his back as the laughter caught up with him and he coughed a little, clearing his throat. “Well… I’m happy as well, for the record. Now we need only survive this war…”

“Let us not dwell on such matters right now.” As though the war did not always hang perilously overhead; they were winning now, but who could tell what the future would hold?

Ferdinand doubted there was a simple member of their army who was not constantly thinking about it; some had it more at the fore of their thoughts, like Dorothea, and some were more optimistic and enthusiastic about their prospects, like Caspar, but one could hardly think of anything else when they were putting their lives on the line constantly…

But for the moment, Ferdinand had other things to think of. He could stop making preparations for his imminent death as though it were an inevitability, rather than an unfortunate possibility. Since everyone had seen his episode the day before, he would have to tell each of them or make a formal announcement about the good news— he rather envied Hubert for having kept his own illness a secret, and a rather devious part of him almost wanted to drag him down with him, just so he would have to experience the same lecture Ferdinand was expecting to receive.

More important than all of that was the fact that he was going to _live_. And he was going to live because the man he had loved, then hated, then loved again? Actually returned his feelings.

It was like a beautiful dream he wished to never wake up from. He would have almost thought it _was_ a dream were it not for the rawness of his throat, the calloused warmth of Hubert’s hands folded together with his own, and the myriad of other small sensations…

No, it was not a dream. But still, he did not want it to end, no matter how much he knew it would have to. He could at least stretch it out, however— and so, setting aside any sense of shame or fear of being improper, Ferdinand forged ahead boldly and said,

“Hubert, would you— stay with me, tonight?”

And before he could become bashful and retract the offer as a silly fantasy, before he could avert his eyes or do anything else, he was graced with the sight of Hubert once again flushing a beautiful shade of red.

“I… Would like that, yes,” he said, clearing his throat in the middle of the sentence, which Ferdinand was beginning to pinpoint as a nervous trait. “But if you’re asking me that so you can hide away in your room like Bernadetta rather than face everyone, I must remind you that we _do_ both need to eat at some point.”

That had absolutely not been Ferdinand’s intention, but he still groaned when Hubert said that at the realization; he had hardly eaten all day and as tempting as it was, there was no telling when they might be called to battle, and he was weak enough as it was from simply the toll the disease had taken on his body.

Still, he was not one to hide from a challenge, no matter how pleasant it sounded. So he untangled himself from Hubert with as much grace as he could manage (extrapolating oneself from a tangled pile of limbs turned out to be exactly as difficult as one would assume) and smoothed out his clothing so that he gave at least the _impression_ of being put-together.

Had he wanted to make it more believable, he might have tracked down clothes he had not spent several hours lying around in, not to mention the rest of his outfit beyond the bare essential shirt and trousers. And it was truly a sign of how _exhausted_ Ferdinand was that being a little sloppy seemed passable.

A few hours ago, he had been dying; his friends could certainly forgive a moment of weakness on his part.

“You know,” Ferdinand said as he rummaged about for the boots he had discarded as soon as he and Hubert had gotten comfortable in his bed; allowing his room to look less than sparkling was one of his few indulgences in slovenly behaviour, as it certainly would not hurt anyone to leave his room a bit disorganized when there was a _war_ to be concerned with, and besides he was perfectly aware of where everything was!

Except for his boots. But that was the exception rather than the rule.

“If we go down there,” he continued with a pregnant pause as he got distracted fetching his boots from where he had apparently kicked them under his desk. “And announce my miraculous recovery,” Another pause as he sat down in his desk chair and pulled his boots on; when he looked back, Hubert was already pulling his own on, and looked far more well put together than he was, aside from the fact that he hadn’t felt the need to fix his hair or smooth his rumpled jacket. “Then they will all know about… Us.”

“Us?” Hubert repeated, as though confused, but the smallest lilt to his voice spoke volumes about how ‘confused’ he really was.

Hubert was rather lucky that his default expression was a mildly condescending smirk, or Ferdinand suspected he would not quite have the excellent poker face he did.

“Yes! Us!” He gave his head an exasperated shake. “Honestly, Hubert, your teasing can get rather tiresome.”

“A quarrel already? Well, I suppose I should have predicted it— it _is_ the two of us we’re talking about, after all.”

“That is precisely what I mean,” Ferdinand said, ignoring that Hubert was teasing him even _further_ in favour of actually getting to his point. “If you and I go to dinner together and I announce that I am suddenly cured, they will know that you and I are… Together.”

Just saying the word made something impossibly warm blossom in Ferdinand’s chest, and he could not even bother to be ashamed of the way he flushed.

He was quite certain that he was going to spend the majority of his time around Hubert turning beet red for a while, and he would simply have to get used to that.

“I see,” Hubert said. “And does that… Bother you?”

There was nothing in his tone to suggest that it was anything but a simple question. And still he felt an immediate tug of guilt in the back of his chest.

Hubert had just spent the better part of their conversation telling him in no uncertain terms that he thought himself _unworthy_ of Ferdinand, somehow, and now here was Ferdinand expressing uncertainty at the thought of expressing their relationship to their closest friends and companions— how utterly careless of him…

“Of course not!” He practically shouted it in his haste to correct himself. “I simply… Know that you are a much more private person than I am. I wanted to be certain that you were as comfortable with the idea…”

“Oh,” Hubert said, sounding genuinely dumbfounded, as though the thought had not crossed his mind that Ferdinand might have been asking for _his_ benefit. “Your consideration is… Thoughtful. But if it’s _that_ bunch… It’s alright.” He crossed his arms. “And if you and I hope to come and go freely, they would all find out soon enough anyway. What with Caspar’s room between ours, and his utter inability to keep his mouth shut.”

Perhaps it was not _polite_ of him to laugh at Hubert insulting Caspar, but he could hardly deny the truth of the statement, and the funniest things were often true.

“Well then,” Ferdinand said, giving himself one final once-over to ensure he was as prepared as he was going to be. “Best we get ahead of all of that, then. Shall we?”

He stepped forward and extended his hand towards Hubert. He very much doubted Hubert needed the assistance standing, no matter what condition they had both been in a few hours ago, but it still warmed his heart when Hubert took his hand— and, once he had been helped to his feet, continued to hold it.

“Let’s,” Hubert replied, and with their fingers laced together and a great deal of _possibility_ stretched out in front of them, stepped out of the room Ferdinand had not so long ago been preparing for his death in, and towards their shared future.


	4. aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small taste of what comes after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!

Ferdinand did receive a rather stern talking to from Dorothea, and an even more stern talking to from Manuela. Though their words did not have much of the intended sting to them, as they were spoken almost entirely through tears of relief— and pulling him repeatedly into nearly bone-crushing hugs, which Bernadetta joined in on.

The rest of their comrades and friends were equally relieved, if somewhat less enthusiastic, though Caspar gave Hubert a hearty clap between the shoulders that very nearly bowled him over. None of them seemed surprised by the news— rather, many of them seemed quite _un_ surprised by both the fact that Hubert had been the cause of it, or that he had returned Ferdinand’s feelings so readily.

“Of course I didn’t think it was Hubie,” Dorothea had said, by contrast. “I figured if it was him, it would have been a complete non-issue, considering the way you two have been making goo goo eyes at each other these past few months.”

Edelgard had had her own piece to say, though she had waited to say it until after they had finished eating and celebrating alongside everyone else. And she had surprised both of them, Hubert especially, by making it known that she had been well aware of Hubert’s condition.

“Not for long,” she had admitted. “You did a good job at keeping it hidden from me, I’ll admit. But did you really expect something like that to escape my notice _completely_ , Hubert?”

“I… Suppose not, Lady Edelgard. My apologies.”

“None necessary. I’m just glad the danger has passed.” And then she had smiled and said, “It’s… Good, seeing the two of you happy like this. It’s been a long time. I wish you both happiness.”

And then, quite against his own will, Ferdinand had cried.

It was more than worth it, though, when the next morning he got to wake up wrapped in Hubert’s arms.


End file.
